


Untitled

by theredwagon



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 16:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20567294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredwagon/pseuds/theredwagon
Summary: A door opens....





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Before the Tag Police has a go at me I swear I will add more in a day or two because tags could give away more than I want to at the moment;) I promise it's safe to go into the water!
> 
> Also I've never written something like this before but why not;)
> 
> Lastly please submit your suggestions for a title! I got nothin'.....

A door opens.

Constance looks up from her sewing. She smiles.

“Am I interrupting?”

She puts her sewing on the window sil and gets to her feet. “A pleasant interruption,” she answers with a sly smile.

Aramis tosses his hat aside and takes her into his arms. He buries his face in her neck, inhales and groans. “Can I?” he asks, although one hand is already unbuttoning her dress.

“Hmmnn,” is her response, along with a tightening of her arms around his waist.

“D’Artagnan?” he breathes.

“Garrison. Hurry, I’ve missed you.” It comes out low and breathy and her hands begin to roam boldly.

Within moments they’re on the bed, naked, touching each other like it’s been ages although it’s really been only a few days.

A door opens.

At once they both go utterly still. Constance pulls the sheet over her breasts, Aramis falls back onto the pillow with a groan, eyes closed.

“Well this is awkward.”

D’Artagnan.

“Oh really?” his wife retorts. “You have no right to complain, you’re hardly ever here anymore.”

D’Artagnan nods slowly. “Someone made me Captain without my consent,” he shoots back. 

“I don’t recall you putting up much of a fight.”

“I don’t recall you being averse to my promotion.”

“Lord almighty, do you two ever stop bickering? D’Artagnan, if you’re planning on joining us you’d better wash off the dust and the gunpowder,” Aramis remarks dryly.

The weapons belt goes first, then the boots, the doublet follows. 

“I thought we agreed that you’d wait,” the Musketeer Captain tells them almost petulantly, stripping down to skin.

Constance lets the sheet fall away. “We did…but you're late, as usual. Now stop complaining and get washed up. Aramis is right, you stink like gunpowder…and horse.”

Her husband grins slow, makes his way to the washbowl, his lean, muscled body on full display for their appreciation.

“Looking fit, Captain,” Aramis says, his voice low and gravelly. 

D’Artagnan grins. “You too, Minister, who would have thought…”

A door opens

Constance drops her embroidery hoop. It hits the flagstones with a soft ping.

“Sorry, did I frighten you?”

D’Artagnan. 

Constance feels warm and flushed, she wonders if it shows. “No, I’d just drifted,” she answers, her voice slightly shaky.

“Are you alright, love? You’re looking a bit feverish.”

Constance looks up at her husband’s handsome face. The wicked scar that mars his right cheek has healed nicely, if anything he looks even more beautiful to her, a bit rakish and just a little bit dangerous. 

She smiles. “I’m fine, really, just day dreaming.”

D’Artagnan looks doubtful but he doesn’t insist. His weapons come off first, then his boots. Constance rises and pulls the doublet gently off his shoulders.

A door opens.

They both startle and d’Artagnan reaches for his pistol from the bed.

“You’re getting slow, you should have heard me outside the door and not _after_ I’d already gotten into your bedchamber.”

Aramis. Of course, who else has a key to their house and comes in and out as he pleases? 

D’Artagnan lets out the breath he’s been holding, drops his pistol back on the bed.

“Duly noted. But someone made me Captain without my consent and the recruits are running me ragged. I can’t help it if my reflexes are occasionally slow,” d’Artagnan retorts. The rest of his clothes follow his doublet until he’s only wearing his drawers.

Constance barks out a laugh and starts picking up his clothes, puts them neatly on the chair. “That wasn’t slow my love, that was pitiful.”

Aramis grins fondly and sits in the chair by the window. He leans over and picks up Constance’s sewing from the floor.

“Looks like he’s not the only one with slow reflexes,” Aramis teases.

Constance blushes. “Guilty as charged. I’d been daydreaming.”

Aramis hums. “You stink like gunpowder, Captain.”

“And horses,” Constance adds, wrinkling her nose.

D’Aratgnan’s face splits into a wide toothy grin. “I’d better wash up then,” he says, moving to the basin.

“Yes, you’d better,” the new Minister drawls, holding out Constance’s sewing to her. He has a sly smile on his handsome face, one that the pair of them know well.

“I don’t think I’ll be needing that,” Constance says a bit breathless.

“I concur,” her husband says lowly. He drops his mouth to her neck, drips water from his hair onto her breasts.

Aramis rises and tosses his fine blue brocade coat aside carelessly, starts undoing his crisp white shirt. “Yes, I agree, I think you will be far too busy for sewing anytime soon.”

A door opens.

The three of them freeze. This time d’Artagnan is at the entrance to their home before either Aramis or Constance can blink.

“The wind, our friend here forgot to turn the bolt,” d’Artagnan scolds when he returns to the bedchamber.

“You need to fix that,” Constance tells him crossly. “The latch has been loose since we moved in.”

“Always bickering. Can the pair of you discuss your house maintenance issues some other time?” Aramis demands with mock anger. He’s down to his fitted linen drawers, the sight of him makes Constance swallow hard.

“I think we can all agree on that,” the Captain replies hoarsely. They move in close, reaching for each other, hands and mouths exploring, the room filling with sounds of groans and gasps and unmistakable sounds of pleasure. D’Artagnan kicks out one leg, finds the oak panel beside him and pushes until he hears the sound of wood meeting wood.

A door closes.

...and that's all she wrote

**Author's Note:**

> It's been ages but life is brutal at the moment and I mean that in the most literal sense of the word. I wrote this today to force myself to post something. I owe tons of feedback, have one WIP that needs updating and FOUR long stories in the works of about 30k words that need my attention but real life has gotten too real these past few months. Stay tuned.


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